Another cock-up.

I went to a painting party last night, I assumed when invited that it would be a civilised night of drinking fine wine, eating vol u vonts and perhaps even giving my opinion on the merits of a painting or two. I really should listen when people speak to me, had I done so I would have worn something more appropriate for the event. There I was looking like George Clooney at the Oscars whilst everybody else had donned old jeans and worn tops.

Not a good start, I think my host thought that I had dressed up just to get out of redecorating her daughter’s bedroom on purpose. One or two of the other guests thought that too I think until I started to strip off and turn my clothes inside out. Its not an easy task getting dressed from the outside in and whilst I struggled the man of the house disappeared into another bedroom and eventually came out with some shorts and a very loud shirt for me to wear.

Thus attired I set about creating with paint, my job was to paint the picture rail that ran around the room, probably because I was the tallest. As I skilfully cut in and laid of the paint like a pro being careful not to get paint anywhere but where it should be, The person given the task of painting the skirting board was lashing it on with a trowel.

I hadn’t done more than about three feet of rail when she came barging past me on hands and knees flicking paint everywhere. She had used the biggest brush she could find in order to get it done so that she could go downstairs and begin some serious drinking. She painted in a clockwise direction, whilst I travelled in an anti clockwise direction, the theory being that we couldn’t get in each other’s way. This worked fine until in a frenzy of paint and whirling brushes she triumphantly jumped to her feet shouting, “DONE”

Her head caught the underneath of the paint pot I was holding and it shot like a missile into the air covering the wall, the window, the floor and me with nearly a pint of Dulux’s best. She looked at me as though I were some kind of insect and said “Bloody hell can’t you watch what your doing” “honestly”
She then disappeared downstairs to inform our host that the strange geezer upstairs had made a right mess.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have argued about it, but as my host started to berate me for being sloppy, I saw red and let her have it. She could see by the way the skirting had been painted that perhaps it wasn’t my fault after all, but knowing me as she did she beseeched me not to make any more of it with the offending nasty person, and I of course promised not to say anything.

Painting was abandoned for drinking and after cleaning myself up I joined the others downstairs, by this time quite a few others had arrived and the drinking part of the party was in full swing. Many were outside enjoying the last sun of the day in the garden. I sat down enjoying my drink and a selection of mini food. Two chairs away from me sat the mad painter woman. She glared at me, I glared back, she got up and went into the kitchen to refresh her drink and whilst she was gone I emptied a can of lager, a chicken sandwich and the last of my sausage roll into her handbag.

I made good my escape apologising to my host for leaving so early, but I needed a shower because I felt sticky from the paint bath earlier and I reeked of turps. The next time I am invited to a party I will definitely enquire as to what the celebrations are for.